Memories of Him
by KayosHybrid
Summary: Many Nations had difficulty sifting through their attics. But Ludwig has a side of himself he'd rather forget. Ludwig/Heinrich. Sort of sequel to 'Ruler of the House.'


Sort of sequel to _Ruler of the House_. To be honest I think this is written pretty shabbily. This was going on a pretty flimsy prompt and it sounded better in the notes. I don't feel like I fleshed it out enough, so I'm putting it out here for critique. Honestly it's REALLY difficult getting across a unusual confliction of emotions without actually saying anything outright. I don't think Ludwig would come to terms with these feelings clearly in his head, whether from denial or a conditioned mindset, so I didn't involve them in the writing. So when I read through it it sounded lame. The emotions don't seem intense enough and I need more practise putting unaware victims of Stockholm Syndrome in writing. I apologise for the long buildup too. askjaklsjd. Might take it down in the future. Enjoy.

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Memories of Him

Ludwig was known for his fondness of organisation. His home was a perfect replica of his attitude towards this - when Gilbert wasn't around. He guessed he'd always been like that, very punctual in seasonal spring cleaning (as well as summer, autumn, winter...) and he'd come to realise one of the few places he'd neglected over the years was his attic. Determined to work through that too, Ludwig tugged on that little ball-ended string and ascended the ladder that fell to his feet.

His attic was, sad to say, an absolute mess. Italy had once come in here on one of his unauthorized pokings around and exclaimed in wonder 'It looked like a bomb had hit it!'. Ludwig had reprimaded him about the sensitivity of the phrase, and sent him on his w ay.

Ludwig climbed into the dark space, torch in hand but found he could see rather well without it. Everywhere were marked cardboard boxes, trunks and old furniture from times past. Nearest to the exit were a box full of his last military uniform, folded carefully away with all its matching equipment. He could only assume he kept that, and everything else, for sentimentalities sake.

His ruined paintings were here too, as well as the many things that had long been confiscated. Stacked neatly against the wall and covered in a thick blanket to preserve them from most of the dust.

He toed them aside, wandering deeper into the cluttered space with tentative purpose. At the very back was the largest hoard of furniture and storage boxes, of things ancient to him but not what he was after. He shoved them aside, shifting a large, old warbrobe out of the way. Behind it was a glass-doored cabinet of the same sort of height. And despite being the furthest to the back, it was in startlingly contrasting better condition – covered only in a very thin layer of dust that turned the glass opaque.

Ludwig looked and gazed at it, absorbed, looking it slowly up and down as if his mind was elsewhere, before getting to work dutifully. Out came the cloth and cleaning product, scrubbing its surface from top to bottom. That achieved he pulled a can of polish from his pocket and got to work giving the glass an important sheen, to ensure the wood frame looked rich and expensive. The arms holding the cleaning utensils dropped to his side, and he sucked in a breath at the display. He gazed for a while, absentmindedly putting down the things cluttering his hands, before very carefully - as if in the presence of royalty - easing the cabinet doors open.

After his surrender, once he had regained his bearings from his ordeal, Ludwig had launched into a campaign to rid his home of everything that reminded Ludwig of Him. Everything that had been His was forcibly removed, now made grievously illegal. For days Ludwig combed his home, violently and furiously throwing items into bags to be shoved outside to the waste disposal without a second glance.

Words could not describe how he had felt. Such a blind, shamed, injured fury.

Words still couldn't describe as Ludwig trailed a bare hand down the immaculate black material, down a beautifully maintained sleeve. The craftsmanship, design and stitching held Ludwig in no interest, only the familiarity he felt in the luxurious cloth, the guilt hanging like a stone in his gut, and the reverence tingling in his skin.

_His _uniform was the only thing Ludwig could not physically bring himself to discard. It felt like he needed to keep it. To remind himself of a dark, past history, one he ought to learn from. But even as he fingered the curt end of the sleeve cuff, he knew that was a feeble excuse. A feeble excuse as to why he had kept the iconic wear of his most enthusiastic tormentor like a dirty secret at the back of his attic, a relic of a person he once knew and whose presence he still couldn't shake.

Looking up, trying to ignore the powerful scent of Him coaxing at his nostrils, he noticed the display was incomplete. The shelf that held the headdress was empty. It was then he remembered the cap stored and forgotten in his bedroom, and Ludwig immediately closed the glass and went downstairs to fetch it.

The trip down his hall was bereft of abused artwork, the walls repainted and modestly furnished. Very little had changed, other than repairs and an even emptier house he was struggling to refill. His bedroom was still bleak and filled only with essentials, his light still soft when he snapped it on. A dozen deliberate steps inside and he reached inside his dresser, pulling out the black object from the bottom, backing up and sitting on his bed.

He gazed at the peaked cap with an unsettling ache in his chest, cradling it like a treasure. Eyes roaming over the lining and the black rim and the deadly Totenkopf. This was just a thing, Ludwig realised, just a soulless, dead object just like His uniform upstairs.

He clutched at it, hunching his strong back a little as he grew overwhelmed, gripping the object between breast and lap. Frustrated, desperate tears blurred his vision and he choked out a pained whimper.

"_Heinrich_..."

Despite everything He had taken from him, the Allies had taken so much more. His house was barren and poor, bereft even of the days of glory and confidence when He and Ludwig were united. The loneliness inbetween visits from Him seemed a blessing compared to now.

The only time he was truly lonely wasn't the time Feliciano left him behind, or when Gilbert from taken from him. It wasn't even the worryful gaps inbetween. The single most cripplingly lonely moments of his life were the times he was left in weak state, whether from pain or violation, hot and sticky and hurting. The times he was staring at the ceiling or at the floor, gasping for breath, and watching His back as he left out the door. It was those times he would crumble and despair quietly, for hours, trying to understand his badly prioritised desires. Trying to decipher whether his ache was only a physical one.

Wondering why there was now a permanent Heinrich-shaped hole in his life, a Heinrich-shape brand on his skin.

Ludwig had gone to his attic determined to clean it out, determined to forget. Heinrich may have taken, but he had given so much, and now his disappearance has taken even more. Heinrich had _abandoned_ him.

Ludwig will not only never forget him – he didn't want to.


End file.
